Write Me A Tragedy
by StarrySkies
Summary: Haven't you figured out there's no such thing as happy endings? MacStella


**Title:** Write Me A Tragedy  
**Author:** StarrySkies  
**Pairing:** Mac/Stella  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own anyone. They're owned by CBS, JB & Co., etc.  
**Summary:** Haven't you figured out there's no such thing as happy endings?

**A/N:** I guess you could consider this _AU_ (Alternate Universe) because some things are off the normal course. Thanks to Tink (Tink05) for giving me the concept and for the constant support. :)

* * *

She looks at her wrist and gathers crime scene photos to return to a file. "I'm gonna head out now." She's already maxing out her overtime as it is.

"Give me a sec, and I'll join you." The mess at his desk is neatly in order after a moment, and he walks her around to the adjacent hallway so she can get her purse from her locker.

He stands just inside the door, leaning against the bricks, and carefully eyes her from a couple yards away. The way she moves tips him off that something's not right. She fumbles with the combination lock, quietly grumbles an obscenity, and opens it on her second try. The door swings open, blocking his view of her.

She hides behind it, trying to compose herself enough to face him again. Forehead resting on the shelf harboring her handbag, she breathes in deeply and for a moment, thinks she can still feel that barrel planted at the back of her skull. It had happened a week or so ago, but the memory is still fresh in her mind. He calls out to her, and she tries to convince him that she's fine. She just needs a minute.

A hand lands on her shoulder, and she practically jumps out of her skin. He slowly spins her around and pulls her in toward his chest. She doesn't want to cry. Doesn't want him to have to see it.

Her body is rigid at first, the way he expected it to be. A longtime theory gains some substantial evidence. Being comforted is a whole new concept for her. But as the time drags on, he feels her relinquish all apprehension and collide with him. He moves quickly to stabilize their balance. Curls tickle his cheek as her chin rests on his shoulder. He gathers her hair into a ponytail and holds it for a moment. His other hand presses against the small of her back, his thumb rubbing the fabric of her jacket delicately, rhythmically. The smell of her skin is something he thinks he'll never forget. "It's all right," he whispers and turns his head into her. He kisses her temple all of a sudden, and the rigidity of her posture returns as she backs away.

"N--No," she stammers to herself.

His arms have let her go involuntarily. "What's the matter?"

"I can't do this." She grabs her bag from the shelf and secures her locker while Mac stands idly by, too stunned to stop her.

When he catches up, she's standing by the elevator, pressing the button almost frantically, so hard the plastic covering is starting to crack. Patience is running low, and she sees it hasn't moved up past floor ten. She presses it one more time, holds it in vengefully before she gives up and heads toward the stairwell.

"Stella?" She doesn't turn back to him. Just pushes the door open and starts to climb down. "So what, you're just going to _walk_ down thirty-five flights?" He's climbing after her while he's talking.

"I don't have anywhere to be," she says in a huff. Her heels clank on the metal treads.

"Just anywhere other than here, right?"

Without warning, she stops and throws her arms out wildly, jolting him. He grabs the railing to steady himself. "What did you want me to do, Mac?" Her eyes hold confusion laced with uncried tears.

Descending one step closer to her on the thirty-fourth floor landing, he states simply, "Let me love you."

He hears her scoff as if it's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard, and she looks up toward the ceiling to avoid looking at him. He knows she's just trying to keep the tears from falling.

"Why is it so hard, Stella?"

"You don't want to love me," he hears her mutter, turning her back to him. She's climbing again.

He follows. "Why don't I?"

"Just trust me."

"_Why_," he reiterates.

Stella turns around, walks up one step, back to the thirty-third floor landing she just passed. "Because this can never be anything more than what it is."

"And what's that?"

"A tragedy." This hits him hard. "A beautiful… _fucking_ tragedy." This, even harder. "Don't tell me you can't see that."

"Why does it have to be that way?"

"Because it just is." She sees he's waiting for more of an explanation. She doesn't know if she can give him one. "If Shakespeare weren't _dead_, he could write a whole damn _play_ about us!" she shouts. It echoes off the painted cinder block walls. He rolls his eyes in disbelief, and she softens her voice as if it makes a difference when she says, "We're both… too broken for it to possibly work."

"Broken or not, I want to be with you."

"We're not _kids_, Mac!" she yells and softens once again, almost whispering like it's the secret of life that she's revealing, "Haven't you figured it out? There's no such thing as happy endings."

The finality of her sentence wounds him. He looks down at her. "You know, what scares me is I think you actually believe that."

"See?" she says. Her fingers run through her hair in frustration. "We've been friends for a really long time. Why do you want to go and _mess_ that up?"

"We're not going to mess anything up."

"Yes, we will. _I_ will." She says it turned away from him, with such certainty that Mac knows she's completely serious, and she's off yet again. He thinks of what she means by "_I_ will." They're down to the thirtieth floor before he stops her once more.

"We can make this work," he breathes deeply. (A mental note is made not to take elevators or the wonders of modern technology for granted ever again.)

"How do you think Claire would feel about this? I know she never much liked me in the first place."

He had known his late wife would get thrown into the mix, but he didn't anticipate how much leverage it would mean to her. "She did like you. You were just…"

"Competition," she finishes. He's taken aback by her choice of word but knows nothing else other than to agree. "I never wanted to compete with her, Mac." She throws her hands up as if she's surrendering to him. "If she had this notion of me wanting to _steal_ you away from her, she was wrong." She says this as though she has to be the first to break it to him gently.

But she isn't. He knows the real reason.

"I think it was the notion of the connection we have together," he says just loud enough for her to hear. "Claire and I… we… didn't have what you and I have." He sits down carefully on the steps while she's left standing below him. "I mean… we were married, yeah." He wishes the term meant more to him than it did. "We were… barely talking when she died. We thought about splitting up, but neither of us could bring ourselves to do it. Somewhere along the way, I think we convinced ourselves that we were doing each other a favor by living together. Neither of us wanted to leave, but neither of us wanted to dig in and fight for anything.

"And I know," he continues, "that you haven't had the easiest life."

She picks her head up from staring at her shoes. He doesn't know how much she hates being pitied, but she tries her hardest not to snap. "I don't need you feeling sorry for me, Mac."

He looks up to meet her eyes. "Somebody should." And he means it.

Her instinct is to detest that statement, but in spite of that, she wants to hear an explanation. "Why?" She feels him begin to drift away from their conversation for a minute. His hands fold together in front of him, and he almost appears to be praying.

He can't help but envisioning her as an infant, abandoned and untouched by anyone, not by her mother, barely even by the people who worked at the orphanage. He sees her as a child, in those crucial formative years, crying and not knowing that someone is supposed to be there to make her feel better. And he remembers her tensing her body when he embraced her, as an adult, naïve as to why it wasn't supposed to be that way.

"Because you practically _flinched_ when I hugged you, Stella. And then you ran."

"I don't hug a lot of people, Mac," she says, defensively. "Forgive me, I don't know how."

"I know." He nods at her, hoping she understands now, which she does.

"Mac, everything I touch falls apart. Why in the hell would you want someone like me?"

"I just do," is all that he can say. He can't be sure she'd understand if he told her. His heart is already on the line.

After a minute, she speaks. "I don't want to get hurt."

Her curls have fallen in her face. She's hiding underneath them. He's convinced there isn't a more beautiful woman in the world.

"But I'm not going to hurt you."

She lifts her head. "How can you be so sure, Mac? How can you be sure that we won't end up barely talking or just co-existing as favors to each other?"

His heart aches a little when she says that, but he doesn't need to think to give her an answer. "Because everyone deserves a second chance. Me. And you."

"What happens…" she begins, "when this 'second chance' doesn't work out the way you want it to?"

"It will," he says.

He finally steps down to stand beside her on the landing. His hand reaches out. He gestures toward her hand, and with only the slightest hesitation, she meets him halfway. For the first time in a long time, she feels safe. A fine new beginning. For the both of them.

"Now," he says. "Can we please catch the elevator? My feet are killing me."

"Sure," she smiles.

The end.


End file.
